


Grave Danger

by irishgirlE



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Headcanon, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, Pre-movie 2, World War I, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirlE/pseuds/irishgirlE
Summary: “No, Ms Goldstein. What you’re asking me to do is, quite frankly, pointless! I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr Graves is dead.”“I know you don’t have much hope, but I need you to try. He believed in you. Please, believe in him. Mr Graves is alive. I know he is, because he doesn’t give up.”It had seemed such a simple request.





	Grave Danger

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at some point in the last year, and I'm sure that I planned to continue it - at some point. But, with the next movie coming out soon I decided I should post this before it's decisively non-canon. It's pre-sequel so Theseus is probably going to be wildly out of character. Graves probably is too, but we never did meet the real Graves so who knows?   
> Also, I've made Graves be an Irish immigrant because, even as a fictional character, I must claim Colin Farrell as 'of Ireland'. (I actually used to know someone who is the cousin of a cousin of his).   
> On a final note, there are flashbacks to WW1 which, I must point out, ended a hundred years ago so I feel somewhat justified in only knowing about it in broadstrokes. So, don't trust anything you see here as even mildly historically accurate.   
> And, on a final, final note, I don't drink, so I know nothing about whiskey (American, Scottish or Irish) beyond the spelling difference.

The shells stopped dropping. The spells stopped flying. Silence fell over no man’s land once more.

 

Men dragged themselves back to their trenches, climbing over the bodies of their brethren, grateful that they had survived another push, praying that this war would end.

 

Huddled in the dirt, shivering against the group of American soldiers that had joined him only yesterday. His own group had died shortly before. Theseus had been alone.

 

“My name’s Percival Graves,” the man huddled on his right whispered, holding out a shaking hand.

 

Theseus stared at it for a moment in disbelief. Was it really the time to make friends? Farther along the trench, a wail rang out into the night. Another brother being mourned, he would only live through his fellow soldiers. Theseus thought of Newt, of how much he wished he would live to see his creature-obsessed baby brother again and stretched out his own hand.

 

“Th – Theseus Scamander, I’m the English wizard.” The title felt strange to say. Yesterday he had just been one wizard among a group of other English wizards. Now, he had a definite article. Now, he was the only one. 

 

Percival grinned – Graves, he preferred Graves, said it sounded fiercer. “English, huh?” he laughed at a joke that Theseus didn’t understand. “Figures.”

* * *

 

 

They took their leave in France. The cold from the trenches was only a lingering nightmare, but Theseus was still sure that he could feel it. It was in his bones. He doubted he would ever be warm again.

 

“Budge up, Scamander,” Graves murmured, squeezing onto the bench of the bar that they were wasting their leave in. He draped a large coat over them both, it probably wasn’t even his. “It’s freezing out here,” he grumbled, pressing a glass into Theseus’ hand. 

 

“I don’t think it is,” Theseus argued, curling numb fingers against a chilled glass.

 

“Shut up and finish your whisky,” Graves retorted, taking a large gulp from his own glass.

 

“Fire whisky?” Theseus guessed, swirling it around in the glass, uncertain of the texture.

 

Graves shook his head. “The real stuff – the stuff the muggles make – is better at warming you up. It gives a better buzz.” He took another long swig, making Theseus frown. He matched Graves’s swig with a splutter.

 

“That’s different,” he muttered.

 

“It’s Scottish whiskey, surprised you’ve never had some. Of course, it’s nothing like Irish whiskey.”

 

Theseus blinked at the sorrow in Graves’s voice. “How would you know?”

 

Graves glanced at him. “I am Irish. That’s why the others leave me alone. They’re not big fans of immigrants. Stupid really, it’s not like any of us is going to die at home.”

 

Maybe it was the whiskey, but Theseus felt compelled to search out Grave’s hand, hidden under their makeshift blanket. 

 

“I’m just glad that I won’t die alone.”

 

* * *

The hospital was all white. Too white. Too unnatural.

 

Healers rushed to-and-fro. Never quite panicked but always rushed. Theseus wondered, not for the first time, how many of these patients would die in this ward.

 

“Theseus,” Graves greeted. Pale and gaunt with bandages wrapped all around his stomach. Bandages Theseus could see because Graves was unsuccessfully trying to pull on his pyjama top with his one, unbandaged arm. He was alive though. Which was more than Theseus could say about the last time he had seen Graves – gasping around blood bubbling out of his mouth, broken hand still clutching his wand, Grindlewald’s leering face still etched in both of their minds, he was still close, they were still in danger. Theseus hadn’t cared. He had hefted Graves into his arms and ran. And ran. And ran. He had saved his squad mate – his only surviving squad mate.

 

There was talk of a medal. Graves still breathing was all the reward Theseus really needed though.

 

“You’re alive,” Theseus smiled.

 

“Thanks to you, I’m told.” Grave answered. He lowered his hand from the fabric tangled around his neck. “I’m told I owe you my life. You’re a hero.” He grinned. “You’re my hero.”

 

Theseus scoffed. “I’m sure you would have been fine without me,” he lied.

 

Graves laughed. “I’m hard to kill,” he agreed. “Nearly… well let’s just say that we can’t deny that the healers had a tough time with me.”

 

“What? You haven’t charmed the nurses with your horrible interpersonal skills and awkwardly endearing conversation?” Theseus asked, remembering watching Graves attempt to chat up a pair of land girls in a pub. 

 

Graves grinned. “No. They know better than to trust me.”

 

Theseus let his eyes roam over Grave’s still healing, still battered body. He had nearly lost his best friend. The one man he loved like family who wasn’t family. The one person that he hadn’t let down.

 

“Theseus,” Grave murmured, looking like he wanted to get up. Theseus instead sat down next to Graves on his bed. “I really am hard to kill you know,” Graves said. It sounded like a promise. “I survived the trip to America all on my own, you know? Got through customs, found my grandparents in a city _ filled _ with people,” he bragged. “I’d never seen so many people before! I’ll take you there one day. After this war, you should come to New York and I’ll show you everything. I’ll show you where I made my first arrest, where I first got punched out, where I first got drunk – all the same day actually.”

 

Theseus let Graves ramble on, memorising every word. Every piece of history from this man – his best friend. This man who would not let life kill him.

 

* * *

It had taken six days of pleading from Newt before Theseus broke.

 

Newt had filled his small New York flat with howlers and owls who had been instructed to wait for a reply. Theseus had finally huffed and plucked an envelope from a brown spotted owl and opened the letter. In Newt’s untidy scrawl, with the paper covered with some creature’s droppings, Theseus read his brother’s request. It seemed simple. Meet with Tina Goldstein, an outstanding aurour who was heavily involved in the Obscurus incident in New York. Or the ‘Grindlewald infiltrates MACUSA incident’, as the papers had reported it.

 

It had seemed such a simple request. Then he learned why she wanted to meet him.

 

“But, Mr Scamander!”

 

“No, Ms Goldstein. What you’re asking me to do is, quite frankly, pointless! I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr Graves is dead.” Mr Graves; it sounded so impersonal. He had preferred ‘Graves’ to ‘Percy’, but he had never complained about what Theseus called him, not really.

 

Tina looked up at him, teary eyed. She had known Graves, probably loved him. He was like that, amassing a group of people who loved him wherever he went, people that he loved just as fiercely, but never dared to tell. How the hell had that cold-hearted bastard masqueraded as Graves? What the hell was going on in MACUSA?

 

“Grindlewald was using Polyjuice potion, that means he needs a living source,” Tina pleaded.

 

Theseus shrugged, face betraying nothing. “Grindlewald is a powerful wizard, Ms Goldstein. He could have easily found a work-around. He was a sadist, but keeping Graves alive, where he could escape, was too much of a risk.” Graves had only survived last time due to luck, and Theseus’ arrival - he didn’t have either this time. 

 

“Please,” Tina begged. “Mr Graves told me about you. He told me he fought at your side. He told me how amazing you were – how the stories never did you justice. Please, help me find him. I know that he’s still alive somewhere. I know that I can’t just not look for him. He was my friend.”

 

Theseus straightened at the mention of his and Graves’s war past. He remembered those times fondly but alone, never mentioning the nights spent huddled together, sharing stories. Graves had found more in common with Theseus than he had with the other Americans with them. Graves had confided with him after six months that he missed the accent but Theseus’s one had been close enough. Apparently, Graves’s father had been arrested for some sort of terrorism back home and he had been sent on the boat, alone, to live with his uncle, aunt and grandparents. He didn’t know what had happened to his mother. He preferred the name ‘Graves’ because it was all that was left of his father. He didn’t like ‘Percy’ because that had been what his mother called him. Theseus never thought to ask what his father called him, what his siblings called him, because he knew Graves had siblings somewhere. He couldn’t imagine that. Couldn’t imagine not knowing where Newt was. 

 

Theseus hardened himself. Graves was dead. He didn’t care where his siblings were. 

 

“Some friend you must have been,” he sneered. “You didn’t notice that he had been replaced, no one did. You didn’t even see anything wrong when he was impersonated by a mass murderer.”

 

“He was your friend too, Mr Scamander,” Tina whispered, hurt but not flinching. Unafraid. She was a lot like Newt. A lot like Graves. “I know you don’t have much hope, but I need you to try. He believed in you. Please, believe in him. Mr Graves is alive. I know he is, because he doesn’t give up.”

 

_ “I really am hard to kill, you know.” _

 

“Fine,” Theseus snapped. He felt shivers run through his body, deep in his bones. It was all in his head, he knew. His own shell shock, he never felt warm. “I’ll try fine Graves. Even if it is a fool’s errand. He’s almost definitely not still alive,” he warned Tina.

 

Tina shrugged. “I know. I don’t want him to be alone.”

 

_ “It’s not like any of us is going to die at home.” _

 

_ “I’m just glad that I won’t die alone.” _

 

“Neither did he.”


End file.
